


only a canvas sky

by blackkat



Series: Jaster/Nico Drabbles [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, Humor, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Rescue Missions, meet ugly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29071812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: The Mandalorian punches him squarely in the face.
Relationships: Nico Diath/Jaster Mereel
Series: Jaster/Nico Drabbles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2131704
Comments: 14
Kudos: 426





	only a canvas sky

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Post-Galidraan Jaster/Nico meet-ugly where they're both trying to take down the spice ring that's enslaved Jango. Jaster just wants his son back, while Nico just wants this upset father to stop trying to stab him.

The Mandalorian punches him squarely in the face.

Nico isn't expecting it, mostly because every last blasted slaver who’s come for him so far has tried a blaster, and even beyond that, the bastard was _hiding_. The only warning Nico gets is a half-second flare of warning, a mind close by that’s pure _rage_ , and then there's an armored fist practically breaking his nose.

It’s not the first time Nico's been punched in the face, even this year, and while it’s surprising, it’s hardly enough to take him out of the fight. He drops, feels the flare of grim victory in the mind of his attacker, and then promptly rolls over, slams a foot up against an annoyingly prominent codpiece, grabs the Mandalorian’s belt, and heaves. There's a loud shout, and the Mandalorian slams headfirst into the wall. No ringing chime, Nico thinks, twisting to his feet and blinking the spots from his eyes. Not beskar, then. He can work with that.

“Of _course_ thugs like these would hire a Mandalorian,” he says witheringly, and the hall is tight, but he still draws his lightsaber, curls the fingers on his empty hand as he ignites the blade. This fight needs to be finished quickly; any longer and the spice smugglers will realize he’s not a pirate out to steal their haul. Depending on the Mandalorian’s skill, Nico might need several tricks he normally would save for—

A blaster shot almost takes him in the forehead, and that rage bubbles over like acid, eating through the air around them. “I'm not with _them_ ,” the Mandalorian spits, and Nico narrows his eyes, startled. The man’s armor is black and red, and he sweeps a look over it, but the patches have been sloppily covered by dark paint, recently and hurriedly done. If there's any sort of clan affiliation, Nico can't guess at it.

Besides, there's more important matters at hand.

“Neither am _I_ ,” Nico says, annoyed by the lack of knowledge. “I'm here to free slaves, and if you would stand down and let me continue on my way—”

The blaster wavers. It’s noticeable mainly for how it hasn’t wavered before, and Nico stops. The rage is fracturing, he can feel it, splintering into dark shards of desperate hope and wild viciousness. The man’s hand trembles, dips, and his breath rasps loud through the vocoder of his helmet.

“There are slaves onboard?” he demands, taking a half-step forward, and that hope surges, tempered with disbelief that this could finally be right.

Ah, Nico thinks, and snaps his lightsaber off. Someone searching for one of those taken. He’s felt that particular emotional quagmire before.

“Yes,” he says, opening his hands to show they're empty. “This crew picked up several new slaves on Ilos Minor. I've been tracking them ever since, and I haven’t seen any of them sold on yet.”

“Kriff,” the Mandalorian says. “I lost them three ports ago. This is—”

He breaks off, and Nico feels something soften in his chest. Stepping forward, he catches the man’s elbow, curling his fingers over battle-scarred armor, and says quietly, “Whoever you’re looking for, they might not be here.”

“I know that,” the Mandalorian says, but he doesn’t shake Nico off. “You're sure they came from Ilos Minor?”

Nico inclines his head, turning his wrist to show the commlink on his wrist. The tracker is glowing bright red, still transmitting but no longer leading, and the sight of it makes something in the man ease. He nods back, drawing his other blaster, and says, “I assume you can find them, Jedi.”

“The slavers are two decks down,” Nico says agreeably, and turns, leading the way towards the next hatch. “And the slaves themselves are three decks down. It seems we may have to go through the slavers to free their captives, what a terrible shame.”

The rasp of the man’s laugh is all relief and reluctant amusement, and he keeps pace easily, even if he is walking a little more crookedly than he probably was before. “For a Jedi, you fight dirty,” he says.

“I fight _practically_ ,” Nico retorts, because he’s had this argument with Dooku more times than he can count. Pausing at the edge of the manhole down to the next level, he narrows his eyes, then cocks his head and flicks a hand. Below them, there's a sharp _crack_ , a loud screech, and the ladder that was previously attached to the edge of the hole hits the next deck and neatly wraps itself around the lurking spice smuggler, pinning them in place. Leaning over, Nico checks for anyone else waiting, then says, “Given that you have a jetpack, I assume you can get yourself down,” and leaps.

As he expected, there's a hum of thrusters that cut out a moment later, and the Mandalorian lands beside him on the catwalk. Nico might not be able to see his face, but he can feel the weight of the man’s attention, hear the undertone in his voice when he says, “You haven’t asked.”

“It doesn’t have any bearing on how many slaves I plan to free,” Nico says brusquely. “Whoever you're looking for may be among them, but I'm going to release all of them regardless.”

There's another pause, then a quiet snort. The Mandalorian slides a blaster away, then offer Nico a hand. “Jaster Mereel,” he says.

Nico looks at his hand, looks up at his helmet, and raises a brow. “I'm fairly certain you're supposed to be dead, Mand’alor,” he says, but he clasps Jaster's wrist. It feels like something he’s getting more used to saying, these days. He blames An’ya’s reckless little hand grenade of a former apprentice. Jon is responsible for half of Nico's grey hairs at this point, and he was never even the boy’s Master.

“Rumors of my death,” Jaster says with a rueful edge. “And you are?”

“Nico Diath,” Nico answers, and Jaster's grip tightens just a little. He pauses, and Nico snorts, able to read what’s in his thoughts. “Whatever bounty you’re thinking of, I can assure you I earned it.”

Jaster snorts, but doesn’t try to argue. Pauses for a long moment, and then says, raw, “They have my son.”

“Then we’ll find him,” Nico promises, and means it. Even if Jaster's son isn't on this ship, Nico will help.

“Thank you,” Jaster says quietly, and the huffs, soft. “I apologize for your face.”

“I've been told black eyes can be charming,” Nico says dryly. “And you can make it up to me later.”

Jaster grips his wrist more tightly for a moment, then lets go. “You have a deal, Master Jedi,” he says, and draws his blaster again. “The slavers?”

“Allow me,” Nico says graciously, and rips the next door off its hinges before the pair of smugglers hiding there can make their move.


End file.
